Fynhavir of Rohan
by Halina
Summary: As much as I would love to be the creator of Middle Earth...I'm not. Hope you enjoy my first fan-fic!


The small lass giggled, dodging her brother and scampering off through the bushes about their home. Her straight, dark brown hair hung loose, and her face was pale, though her cheeks flushed in health. She giggled again, green eyes alight with mirth, as she drew the little wooden play sword she had stuffed through the sash of her loose green gown. She swung out at her brother, who was startled by his younger siblings attack.  
  
"Die! "she squealed, lunging, sword outstretched. Her brother had recovered, and promptly drew his play sword to block her lunge, and laughing the little girl danced about his feet nimbly.  
  
Her brother was tall and lanky, hair as dark as her own, and cropped to his chin. His green eyes flickered, carefully judging his sibling's every move, as she darted around him. As she lunged again, he parried, lunging back and together they toppled to the ground.  
  
The little girl giggled, disentangling herself from the wrestling match they had engaged in upon reaching the ground. She held the sword out, trying to look dignified and wise, only succeeding in looking ridiculous.  
  
"I shall be a warrior when I grow up, and follow you on quests Dyarmid!" she declared solemnly, as he scrambled to his feet.  
  
"Fyn!" he replied gently, "You must be a good wife and stay home and breed children, and help your husband raise horses!"  
  
She pouted at him, lip quivering.  
  
"That's not fair. I want to be a warrior! I'm nearly as good a rider as you..." she trailed off, eyes widening as she heard the thunder of hooves in the distance.  
  
"RUN!!" cried Dyarmid, scooping his little sibling up in his arms and running into the shelter of their home, wooden play swords forgotten on the ground.  
  
Fyn wriggled out of her brother's grasp, craning her head to peer out of the small slit window in their cottage. Her family wasn't rich, but they were fairly well off in Rohan, breeding a good, strong line of horses.  
  
In the distance, a long line of midnight black riders pounded across the valley that lead into their home.  
  
The steel of drawn swords glinted in the sunlight of the warm day, and some bore torches. The feel they brought with them was not pleasant, and Fyn shivered, darting back into the safety of Dyarmid's arms.  
  
"I'm scared," she whispered, "Are they coming here?" Her green eyes gazed at her elder brother endearingly, pleading with him silently for him to tell her that no, they weren't, but he knew the inevitable. These Shadow Riders were heading to Rohan.  
  
"I don't know Fyn," he said honestly, gazing out as the black column drew ever closer.  
  
Fyn's eyes hardened, a steel glinting in them like the glint of a sword.  
  
"Well," she declared, "Then we must be ready to defend our home!" She darted over the the wall, drawing a real sword from one of the sheathes that hung there.  
  
"We'll help!" she added, staring at her brother, who was stunned that the small lass had managed to lift the weapon.  
  
"Fyn," he insisted, "You can't! We have to stay here, and be safe!"  
  
"No one will be safe if they come," Fyn said stubbornly, fastening the sheath at her waist. It nearly reached the ground, but she didn't' care.  
  
The small hut was silent, Fyn staring out the window at the menacing, advancing column as her elder brother paced.  
  
"Fyn, what shall we do?" he wailed, a hint of hysteria creeping into his voice, though Dyarmid had attempted to sound brave.  
  
"We'll stay and fight. They shan't take us if we're fighters," Fyn replied logically, "And we shall have a better chance of surviving!" She scrambled over to the wall, where she brought down another real sword.  
  
"You know how to use it," she told Dyarmid gently, handing the elder lad the sword.  
  
He shrugged reluctantly, drawing the shining steel weapon, and admiring it in the dim light of their home.  
  
"I suppose..." he agreed reluctantly. He didn't' care that he looked a coward before his little sister...he just wanted to be safe. He wanted to be out in the stables, tending to their horses or helping with the herds in the fields, along side his mother. But no, he had to stay and watch Fyn...perhaps that was the best place for him in Middle Earth anywise. Dyarmid sighed, shaking his curly head.  
  
Fyn attempted to look brave, to keep up a valiant face for her brother's sake...but all she could manage was to look solemn. And in truth she was. Short minutes ago they had been playing with wooden swords in the absence of their mother, and now they held real steel weapons in their hands, ready to fight. This was for real.  
  
Suddenly, a scream echoed through out the valley, chilling the two siblings blood as they waited, fearfully for the column to descend upon their home, as they so expected it to do. And they were rewarded, as a bang shook the little wooden hut, sending both Fyn and Dyarmid toppling to the floor.  
  
"Dyarmid!" squealed Fyn, grabbing at her brother, and whimpering, eyes wide in fear.  
  
"Don't worry Fyn," he whispered, betraying his own fear in his quavering voice.  
  
He slowly rose to his feet, sword outstretched, staying before Fyn, who had scrambled upright, straightening valiantly.  
  
"I'll fight with you," she insisted stubbornly, shoving herself to be even with her elder sibling.  
  
Dyarmid opened his mouth to protest, but gave up at the determined look on his little sisters face.  
  
"Fine..." he replied, bursting through the door of their hut and out onto the dirt packed road of the town. Some houses were burning merrily, and screams and sobs echoed in Fyn's ears.  
  
Now that she was confronted with this, she wasn't afraid. She hadn't learned to use that play sword for nothing...she could ride and fight just as well as Dyarmid. One of the black clad riders spotted the small, determined little dark hair girl, staring straight ahead, stunned as one of the riders stabbed her brother.  
  
"DYARMID!" she squealed, sobbing, attempting to run to him as one of the riders grabbed her shoulders, swinging her up.  
  
"LET ME GO!" shrieked Fyn, wriggling in his grasp, attempting to free herself, to get to her bleeding brother, the crimson of his life blood seeping into the brown dirt of the town. The rider leapt onto his black stallion, and then with a jerk of his head to the rest of his group, they galloped quickly away, Fyn sobbing, kicking at the one who gripped her tightly, and staring back at her burning home, eyes filled with the vision of her brother, dying on the ground.  
  
Fyn gathered in all her breath, then opened her mouth to shriek, making it impossible for people to _not_ notice that these rider's had made off with a child. Though Fyn's head banged up and down on the rider's back, her feet pounding into his front, to try to unsettle him, her mind coolly calculated what she might do...  
  
One thing was for certain. Without Dyarmid to protect her, who knew what was going to happen. What did riders do to those that they captured anywise? Fyn's brows furrowed, shivering. This was not good. She had never been in a situation like this...and the sight of Dyarmid's blood seeping into the dirt streets of their village crept unbidden into her eyes again. Fyn choked back tears, determined to not cry...she couldn't cry. She had to be brave, she was going to be a warrior when she grew up! No matter what Dyarmid told her. She wasn't ready to give up her dream just yet.  
  
Filled with determination, Fyn clutched at the little dagger she had on her belt. She hadn't learned to fight for nothing...and as she was so proud of boasting, her riding skills and fighting skills excelled her 13-year-old brothers. She slowly drew the dagger, to make sure the rider who was carrying her didn't notice that swift movement...and then, the small lass struck.  
  
"DIE!" she shrieked, plunging the dagger into his back, and toppling down as he fell forwards into his horses back.  
  
Fyn gathered herself into a fairly controlled roll, coming up on her feet, skirt torn, but nothing worse than that. The horse halted, startled with this sudden stop.  
  
"Girls can _too_ fight," she muttered rebelliously, tossing her dark, straight hair.  
  
Now that she was more or less free...Fyn didn't know what to do. She turned, about to flee when strong hands scooped her up, seating her firmly on a saddle, binding her wrists and gagging her with a strip of filthy gray cloth. Fyn grimaced, spitting at the rider who flinched but otherwise didn't move. The dagger was confiscated, the whole column halted in its progress. The dead rider was tossed to the side, along with her small dagger and his horse led off.  
  
Fyn gagged in a breath, attempting to see past the blind strip that they had placed firmly across her eyes, so that she couldn't see where they were headed...to somewhere was all that she knew for certain. She shivered again, now regretting that she had acted against the rider...for certain this wasn't any more comfortable than banging about on someone's back.  
  
Fyn tried to scream to tell _some_ one she lived...she hadn't died _yet_ but the cloth muffled any sounds she made. Sullenly, Fyn settled down, feeling very sulky, fearing what lay ahead of her.  
  
Fyn wriggled around, digging her heels into the horse's flank, sweat trickling down her forehead, and plastering her dark hair down. Fear clenched her heart, and Fyn bit her lip, trying to kick, either achieving unsettling the rider, or the horse so that the horse would unseat the rider. Either way...hopefully it would work. All she had to do was get off of this horse! If only she wasn't bound like this...  
  
Fyn grimaced, shaking her head, only to be swapped idly by the rider before her. She saw stars for a moment, though her eyes were blindfolded. It shocked her how they had just discarded the rider that she had killed like that. His own companions had just tossed him away at the side of the path like garbage, and taken any valuables he might have owned in his lifetime. Fyn shivered, still imagining her own Dyarmid, dead.  
  
She wriggled even more, kicking the startled rider in the small of his back. He cried out, and hit her sharply, at just a spot, so that Fyn swooned, and fell face flat on the saddle of the midnight black horse, completely, and utterly unconscious. What would happen now was not up to the young girl. It was in the hands of fate.  
  
~As the black riders departed, the frightened villagers began to creep out of their homes, staring about them, at the bodies of friends and foe alike scattered across the ground. The dirt of the roads had been turned a muddy brown shade, red of the lifeblood of those slaughtered by the Riders seeping into the dirt. One woman, coming in from the fields atop a large, ruddy brown horse gave a cry, crossed with a sob. She leapt from the beast's back, impatiently brushing her dark hair from her eyes, as she crouched at the side of one young man, blood from a deep chest wound spilling onto her hand, which was placed over the wound....It was as if she thought that by this, she might cure him. But no human could live an injury like that, and survive. None in the world. Kyara brushed a tear from her cheek, staring down at the still, cold face of her only son. Dead...and where was Fyn? Gently she lifted the lad in her strong arms, used to tending the weakest colts, lifting the injured horses...and now she carried her dead, still son.  
  
"Oh Dyarmid," she whispered, "Where's your sister? Why did you have to die..."  
  
Eyes dried, Kyara laid her only son down on his bed in their house, forcing away the reality of the truth. He would wake...he had too...yet she knew all to well that he would not. Not the next day. Or the next. He would soon lie in a grave, beside that of his father...and the empty one of his sister. What had happened to little Fyn? Had she just disappeared...  
  
Kyara sighed, sinking down onto one of the three chairs around their small round table, lovingly carved by her husband naught but a few years ago... And now her son must join him in the ground at only twelve years. Life was not fair, but no one had ever said that it was. Heaving a deep sigh, Kyara went to take one of the swords from where they hang in their scabbards on the wall, only to discover that two were missing. She smiled slightly through the tears that threatened to well up again. Fyn and Dyarmid had at least that much sense...she wasn't unprotected, wherever she was. Kyara fastened the catch of one of the other swords and belts about her waist, before striding out, swinging back up onto the back of the horse she had ridden in from the fields, and galloping off at full speed. She had to find Fyn. ~  
  
Fyn stirred, startled at the feel of rough ground against her back. Her first thought was that she must have rolled out of bed during the night, but the sun blazing through the strip covering her eyes, and the throbbing in her head put a stop to _that_ notion. As the events of earlier that day began pouring back into her memory rapidly. Fyn groaned, raising her hands to massage her temples. And that reminded her of another curious thing. She had been bound hand and foot...and gagged, then thrown on the back of a horse. But she was no longer bound! And she _certainly_ wasn't on the back of a horse any longer. Experimentally, Fyn rotated her shoulder blades, deciding as she stretched to leave the eye band on. By the amount of sun blazing through, she guessed it would be wise to leave it on currently. 


End file.
